


Memento Mori

by kavikdante33



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:13:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2485724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kavikdante33/pseuds/kavikdante33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what Sam buried. This is what Dean ignored. This is what Castiel burned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Mori

In the bottom of a duffle there is a ring box. There are burnt bald patches and scrapes from where it was grabbed hastily. The remaining black velvet has faded to a dark mottled grey. The white satin lining bears traces of ashy fingerprints. You can’t see any tearstains. They dried up long ago.

The ring band was a braid of silver, steel, and cold iron. The inside of the band was inscribed with sigils for protection, health, and prosperity. The single diamond took the buyer over a year to earn. 

The box is empty. The ring is buried in a larger box upon the finger of its intended owner. 

For three years, it remained empty, a reminder to its holder of loss and unfulfilled dreams. 

Then it had gained an occupant. A small, bronze amulet was reverently laid inside. Some days the box was opened and remained that way for hours. Other days, it was tossed and thrown and trashed. Hours could pass before it was fished out and returned to the bottom of the duffle. Once or twice, the necklace was removed and placed around the borrower’s neck. The yellowing satin lining gained more tearstains on those days. 

Then the day came. The amulet found its way back around the neck of its rightful owner. The ring box was placed back in the duffle with a lighter hand. 

Months later, a pale clenched fist dropped the discarded gift back into the box. It was firmly snapped shut and buried. No tears were shed this time. 

The duffle remained locked up in the dark for a year. When it is finally removed, the ring box is not even thought of. It could be lost forever and its owner would not care.

Decades passed, the box a heavy burden in the back of the possessors mind. It acquired more scratches and dents, each one an echo of the scars upon its owner. Every failure and death was pushed into that box like a dried pressed flower. Memento mori. 

Then the day came when the box was conscripted to a wooden pyre. A beige clothed arm reached out to strike the match. From the grey, dismal morning, past the afternoon’s light shower and into the evening’s torrential downpour, a single figure stands vigil. There is no way to know if the tracks upon the figure’s face are caused by tears or rain. It really doesn’t matter at this point. The flames spread to surround the figure, never going out even in the rain. When the first rays of the sun stretch across the ground, all that remains is a melted silver stick, a small puddle of bronze, and an unidentifiable piece of metal that could have at one time been an antique firearm, the chamber empty. The wind blows coldly through, erasing any ashy patterns from the cooling earth.  
***  
In the bottom of a duffle there is a ring box. There are no burn marks or scratches to mar its pristine black velvet surface. The white satin lining cradles a precious gift. You can’t see any tearstains. There are no tears in heaven.


End file.
